agoodyarn | for frightening: Goddammit Bruce

for frightening: Goddammit Bruce

[continued from here and here]

Clark knew Bruce.

He knew that Bruce was, first and foremost, married to his work. He knew that the man was driven to a point just past healthy. By, you know, a few miles. He knew that Bruce could get focused, and that Bruce was not the sort to put down a mystery just because it seemed impossible to solve.

That said, after a week of hearing nothing out of Gotham (despite more than a couple calls, texts, and emails), Clark's very extensive understanding and patience regarding Bruce's behavior had quite firmly given up the ghost. That was why he was flying into the cave sans invitation (or even pseudo invitation) and looking around to see where--

Aha.

Asleep at the console. At 3pm in the afternoon.

Well, there was the sweet way to do this, which involved kisses and light touches, which was very much not in the cards at the moment. Then there was the slightly dickish way to wake him up, which would require a bullhorn or other loud noise making device; too much work. He could always go for polite, which would just involve a tap to the shoulder. Nope, they were past polite.

Which was why Bruce was summarily put over his shoulder as he started making his way upstairs.

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He looks sideways over at Bruce, directly, no mirror involved.

"Which option means you won't be worried about me?" because honestly, that's the reason that convinced him, more than anything. And when it boils down to it, there's no such thing as softening this blow. His pride won't smart better or worse depending on the amount of money because he is very well aware that no matter what it is, it's nothing to Bruce. Doing this is doing it, and he's never been one to do things halfway.

"Assuming you don't want me to force a paygrade adjustment mandate on the Planet that hits parameters so specific they catch you and a dozen other people, or take a branch out of the nonprofit dummy I use to bankroll the Watchtower to get a tax break on donations to Superman's continued well-being..."

.. Which he would do. Because he is insane.

"Both. If there's extra you feel uncomfortable with, I have a list of organizations to donate to a mile long."

As tempting as the paygrade adjustment is (and it is, mostly because it benefits more than just him), that option is too dangerous. Too obvious. But--

"Clark. Clark Kent. Superman isn't getting anything."

Because he's doing this for Bruce Wayne, not Batman. He's doing this because they're doing this together. Clark had asked Bruce to let him love him, to let him be there for him, and right now... well, right now, he's agreeing to the same.

They're at a red light. The windows are tinted (even the front windshield, which is illegal, but oh well), and so there's no security risk when Bruce leans over and presses a quick kiss to the side of Clark's mouth. The gesture may be sweet but his touch is steady and his expression is serious - if softened by something deeper.

"Which is why none of that's ranked in the top three."

Bruce would never screw around with the lines between Superman and Clark. Though they don't need those lines between the two of them, they exist for a reason. Same with Bruce and Batman.

"I wonder if I'll actually puke if I eat pancakes made with GMO flour." ... The diner is up ahead.

He'd been wrong. There was one thing that softened the blow. And of course, Bruce had figured it out and done it. It was sort of amazing how that worked.

"Honestly, whatever you think is best," he says with a hand through his hair. "I'm generally pretty terrible with money."

His smile is wry as he glances over.

"And I think you'll survive a little plebeian flour."

Bruce does not say I know you are, because that feels like pushing it right now, so he just huffs at the assertion about plebeian flour. He's starving and he needs coffee; in retrospect it's a minor miracle he didn't offer to do something even more outlandish.

The diner is jammed in between an apartment building long since re-purposed for offices and a gas station, the ruins of an out of use freeway off-ramp scraping overhead covered in moss and ivy. The crumbling parking lot is nearly full, the value of the cars wildly varied. Everybody comes here. Like any other old, urban city, Gotham is stitched together too densely for thick dividing lines.

He pulls the cap on as he gets out, locking the car up behind them. The diner is self-seating with amiable acknowledgement from the girl behind the counter ('Morning sweethearts, coffee'll be over in a sec'), and soon they're in a booth that's cleaner than the grimy windows suggest it should be. Menu's aren't sticky either. Not bad.

"Eggs or omelettes here?" Clark asks as he picks up the menu and starts browsing through. He's learned through the intensely scientific method of having eaten at a whole bunch of them that most diners are either good at eggs OR omelettes. The occasional gold star establishment does BOTH well, but he figures it's worth asking since he's guessing Bruce has probably eaten here at least once before.

He's about to say something else when his eyes get that distant look in them that Bruce knows well enough and he sighs as he holds up a finger and starts pulling himself back out of the booth. Duty calls.

"This shouldn't take too long but if she comes by, order me something? I trust you."

Anything vegetarian on the menu would probably serve him well enough.

Edited (ugh word repeats.) 2015-11-13 08:06 (UTC)

"See you, sweetheart."

It sounds a bit like a quiet echo of the girl behind the counter, but regardless, it's probably not playing fair. Batman only plays to win, though.

Bruce feels more human with coffee, and orders an array of things either of them could eat (except for bacon), in the event Clark ends up being gone for long enough that he has to take the rest of it home. He checks up on news from his phone; ignores an obnoxious text from Tim he's glad he didn't read when Clark was present.

Clark gives him a quick little smile at the endearment before heading towards the bathroom. That isn't where he goes, of course, and where he's actually going might become immediately apparent if Bruce happens to check the Planet's website with his phone: apparently the Royal Flush gang are in town, nothing earthshaking, though the live news feed rocks as Superman comes onto the scene. It's not terribly riveting television, and it's wrapped up in a rather short amount of time. Superman, for his part, eschews an interview or commentary to instead throw off a little salute from the air before disappearing.

And Clark comes back from the bathroom after roughly seven minutes.

"I hope you got me coffee," he says as he finishes fixing his hair. Or rather, unfixing it into the messier style favored by Clark Kent.

Of course he watches it, Bruce did not become a different person within the span of seven minutes, he will ever be a man with a need to know everything no matter the invasive cost of the observation. It's nice of the Daily Planet's website to make it easy today.

"What kind of monster do you take me for," Bruce says smoothly, looking up at him over the rim of his own coffee cup as he raises it to take a sip. There is in fact a mug waiting for Clark, though its temperature may have dimmed slightly over the course of the five and a half minutes it's been there.

"You sure he should be drinking any coffee? You were in there for a long time, darling," says the girl behind the counter who is no longer behind the counter, popping up to refill Bruce's coffee on her way elsewhere.

"He's just very exacting." Barring exceptional cover circumstances, Bruce is always polite and kind to service workers. A habit held-over from when his parents were alive.

"I'll bet. Food'll be up in a minute."

Edited (oh my god) 2015-11-13 19:15 (UTC)

Clark may have perfected the art at subtly glaring at his coffee until it's a decent temperature again without anyone noticing it and the only indication would be that there's a light steam coming out of the cup a moment later. He takes a sip, makes a decision, and then proceeds to commit a crime against the bean with at least two creamers and an outrageous amount of sugar.

"'Exacting?'" he can't help but question, because really, of the two of them?

Then he's bowing his head to the server. "Thank you, ma'am." Before turning back.

"Mmm, what'd you get us?" he asks as he looks down at the menus.

The look Bruce spares him while he ruins his coffee says that is revolting, but due to their friendship he may continue to live. This time.

Then, "Mm." What are you talking about, Mr. Kent, Bruce Wayne is terrible at his job, everyone in Gotham knows this. Always throwing money around and embarrassing his shareholders. Is he amused? Hard to tell.

"Omelets and waffles." Decided not to leave the house and betray Alfred's pancakes in the same go.

The look Clark returns with could be translated as an intense commentary on exactly how terrible pop-tarts with peanut butter were as a 'dessert'... or a simple 'bite me'.

He leaves the subject of 'exacting' alone for the moment before popping the diner menus back into the slot near the wall and sipping at his coffee concoction.

"Sounds good to me. Anything with mushrooms?" He could do mushrooms right now. That sounds good. He shifts a little and in the booth, his feet nudge up against Bruce's and he can't help a faint blush because really, he wasn't playing footsie but it still happened and he can't help being happy when he's happy.

A) Not coffee, coffee is entirely different and somewhat sacred B) Surely no biting at the diner, Kansas, good heavens. Between their borderline psychic exchange and the "accidental" footsie, the look in response to that response is Not until we're back at the house.

"Yours is mushrooms, green peppers, light onions, comes with hash browns and broccoli." Why broccoli? Who knows. It just does.

On cue, their food arrives, the girl pleasant about it - two omelets roughly the size of house cats, and a waffle plate that's clearly intended for sharing (though Bruce is definitely rescuing his before it's over-adulterated with synthetic syrup). Bruce gives her a quiet thank-you with a small smile before she ducks out again.

Clark would be horrified to know that Bruce thought he'd be going at those waffles with anything like that synthetic mess. He can taste every single chemical in everything he eats. That stuff tastes like plastic to normal people.

All the same, he ends up nodding politely at the server with a smile in thanks before going for his omelet first, because it looks delicious and the broccoli has some cheese on it so it's about as wonderful as food can be.

Don't worry, Bruce. Clark can wait until they're home. That's just a happy good food noise.

Because non-spoilable coffee creamers are so natural. Hmph.

His own omelet is good - Clark's right, from earlier, about any one place doing eggs or omelets well, obvious this particular diner does the latter pretty damn well. Sausage and potato omelet plus bacon is awfully heavy for his normal diet, but as noted, he hasn't eaten in a while. That in mind, it says something of his easy control that he doesn't inhale everything.

Bruce touches Clark's foot with his own at that noise, teasing, and then has to go through several more alerts on his phone. He ends up calling someone, using a subdued, scratchy voice and pretending to be hungover and irate about being contacted so early.

What do you think the sugar was for? It's a balance.

Clark listens to the mock hungover call with a wry smile as he works on his omelet. He can't help but think of his own message priority system, though his own had more to do with what he heard than any device, and how he listened listened listened-- oh there was something he had to attend to. Bruce handled his with a 'hungover' phonecall while he'd gone off and punched a bunch of people who really needed to put down the playing cards.

It's a working breakfast for both of them. There's something ordinary in it, because this has been them any number of times before, be it in the cave with takeout or playing unexplained-absence-tag-team at an event Bruce Wayne is hosting and that Clark Kent is covering.

"Anything interesting?" he asks when the other man returns, still working through his food. The inclination to talk shop is hard to resist, even in the necessarily vague language used in public.

This one had taken about three minutes, and the woman might cut off his coffee supply at this rate.

"Malaysia," is his answer for this one. Because of course, after a certain number of hours, something had to go wrong. This one had involved some unfortunate flooding and thank goodness for the ability to spin at speeds that could actually dry him off and leave everyone none the wiser. "Not really."

Worthwhile, certainly, but not really 'interesting'. Just what he'd find out after a little research was some unfortunate restructuring of a budget by a government official who wasn't from the area that would hopefully get overturned soon enough.

"You?"

Bruce makes another one of his 'mm' sounds before he responds, chewing a bite of omelet thoroughly. Thinking about Malaysia, maybe.

(There are two types of people in the world: Those who are awed by Superman, and liars.)

"Someone knocked over one of our recovery clinics on the edge of town, wrote my name a thousand times on one of the walls with a purple Sharpie marker. I got the alert in the car - I know who it is," with a shrug, because of course he does, "but the board caught wind and they're unsettled."

Bruce doesn't sound concerned. Neither did Brucie, come to think of it, all petty irritation at being bothered with such a pointless issue.

Clark's nose twitched in irritation, considering he knew how well those recovery clinics worked to help people. While he knew that Bruce wasn't concerned, that Brucie wasn't concerned, it was still annoying. Finally, after a moment of settling, he grunted and went back to his breakfast.

Bruce would find them, especially if he knew who it was, and he'd more than likely punch them repeatedly in the face. At least there was that.

"Monarchs swept the Knights last night" he observes with glance towards a television playing the news on mute.

No one will be punched; Batman is going to ask this person very nicely to stop, observe the return of any supplies unused, and if there is any protest, Batman will break all his fingers. Slowly. At least that's the plan as far as Batman will explain it to this fellow who has a crush on Bruce Wayne. Usually, these types of plans work. Sometimes it takes a finger or a finger and a half, but it's never been more than that.

"It's the least they can do after being dead on arrival for three seasons, I suppose." Whether or not Bruce actually gives a shit about sports remains a true mystery, though it's something he has to keep abreast of for his public persona. "They can keep each other company in the mire of mediocrity the west coast has plunged everyone else in."

Clark gives a snort at that, because the Monarchs are his team. Not in the ownership sense, obviously, but in the loyal fan sense.

"The Monarchs have almost made it to the playoffs the last two years, thank you very much," Clark points out with a waggle of a finger. "That's not mediocre. That's above average. They've just had some trouble since they lost their head coach. The new guy hasn't quite gotten a handle on the team yet. It takes a while to really establish a team identity properly."

"A tragically unsuccessful robbery of an empty house," he drawls, because whether or not he actually cares, Gotham vs Metropolis ribbing is written in the fabric of the universe as something necessary. "The Knights at least dignify their abject failure by strategically not struggling when they know they're going to be steamrolled."

No amount of ribbing will cover up how bad Gotham's baseball record is lately, though. At least they have football?

"And yet, it doesn't stop the Knights players from asking for a raise. I guess losing really does sting." He goes back to his omelet then, since he wants to finish it before it's cold. Cold eggs are no one's friend.

Then he reaches for the waffle and dips it in the whipped cream on the side of the plate.

for frightening: Goddammit Bruce

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